Rabies shot, a former teacher and a vet: what we learned

Greye in the backyard, last year

                The three characters in this tale are Greye, the 10-year-old (guesstimated) domestic longhair; this blogger, and Doctor R.

                Greye hadn’t been to the vet since his last rabies shot--good for three years. He’s the only cat who’s stuck with me (and I with him) all these years.  Many others have come up and then disappeared, even though I had them “fixed,” fed, watered, and litter-boxed—some for several years. No matter.) Even though Greye’s not a lap cat, he begs for a hairbrushing under his chin, at the sides of his face and down his back. Which I will do—at least once a day. The only sound he ever makes is a quiet, but sometimes persistent “meow.”

                Today was different. I retrieved him from his carpeted lookout at the attic window, carried him firmly down the stairs and placed him in my jury-rigged pet carrier: a molded blue plastic storage box (towel on the bottom) covered by a plastic screen that comes with some litter boxes. This one fit perfectly over the rim of said box. A short bungee cord fastened low on the narrower ends secured the lid—and feline.

                Oh, my goodness, you’d a thought I was strangling him; or that he was preparing to attack me. His growls were feral, primal, low in his throat, loud. I ignored them. At the vet’s, the receptionist, hearing one howl, sent us scurrying into an exam room. “Shut the door,” she said.

                Greye settled down somewhat. I began the daily paper’s cryptoquote, anticipating a wait at some point.

                Pretty soon, in came the doctor, whom I’d never seen, since Dr. P. --being a former neighbor-- was my vet-of-choice. But today was Dr. P’s day off. Dr. R and I shook hands, and I handed Greye up to the table. A 12-year-old-looking assistant came in and held the cat, so I sat down. First, his rabies shot. Then his ears, eyes, mouth, teeth got a look-see, followed by a dose of de-wormer.

When the girl took Greye out to be weighed, Dr. R. asked me about, well, about me. I told him I had taught music at this-and-that school in Benton, and when I mentioned Eastside Junior High, he looked pensive, and said, no, it wasn’t me who was there when he went through Eastside. “Let’s see, who was the music teacher?” He looked at the wall, as if pulling information from way back in his memory. “Oh, it was Mrs. Paulus!”

                “That’s me!” I said. “I’ve had as many name changes as Michael Jackson had face lifts,” I said.

                “I remember that name,” he went on, “because I’d never heard a name like that before.”

                “Mr. Weed (Mike, former principal at ESJH) still calls me “Ms. Paulus,” I said.

                Now, for what I learned. “Are fleas a problem?” the doctor asked after the aide brought Greye back and he’d noted his weight.

                “He does scratch quite a bit; do the Advantage treatment, please.”

                The doctor ran his hands down Greye’s back and laid a bit of cat hair on the table. “Let me show you something that’ll tell us whether he does or not.” He laid a paper towel over the hair, sprayed it with water (?) and said, “Let that soak in a minute or two.” He proclaimed Greye extremely healthy and said whatever I was feeding him was fine.

                Then he lifted the paper towel and turned it over. He pointed out teeny red pricks here and there among the hair. “That’s flea poop,” he said. While the aide applied the Advantage Multi, the doctor and I said our goodbyes and he left the room.

                We all learned something and had a grand time doing it.

                Well, except for Greye.

Greye, left, several years ago